night poem

 I think my poetry is getting better. Praises be to Zamsky.

Once our little dance has ended,
Young romance begun to gray,
And the visions that I harbored
Show their frailty and give way-

There will still be your lips.
There will still be that loose curl of hair that, even now, you
are brushing back into place.
There will still be your eyes. Dark like a wooden bracelet,
Like the edge of the sea where seeing stops.
There is nothing more, here.
There is nothing left for me to take.